


All’s Well That Ends

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (Vaseline was invented earlier than most give credit for), (though not necessary to have read to understand), (well more like comfort/hurt/comfort), Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Canon moments explained, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 3, Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Lube, Jealousy, M/M, Nipple Play, Post- A Pale Horse, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Straight Razors, Victim Blaming, chapter 6 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: “Was wondering if you were free, but, uh—““I’m free.” Arthur grunts, pointedly dropping his journal face down against his chest.Kieran takes his hat into his hands. “Well, didn’t know if you noticed, but I’m in need of a trim.”Arthur has noticed, though he hasn’t said anything, and wouldn’t have. Not his place, really, and he’s not one to talk. Arthur often lets his hair grow out long and wild for random spells, especially when he’s away from camp, until Ms. Grimshaw browbeats him into cleaning and shaving to levels acceptable for society.“Not especially.” He lies. Because he definitely has noticed Kieran’s hair growing out. He’s been annoying himself every time he notices the way it falls into Kieran’s face while he works, when it got long enough that Kieran swept it up and off the back of his neck into a short ponytail. He’s wearing his hair up and off his neck again, and it looks— pretty? Arthur’s not sure if he likes that word rolling around in his head. Handsome, maybe.Kieran sighs, mutters an exasperatedalrightunder his breath as his eyes roll skyward.—Kieran needs a haircut; Arthur finds himself indulging in small favors; Bill Williamson needs hair pomade.





	1. warmer your hands hold

On the edge of Arthur’s tent, Kieran hesitates. There’s no door, but he has to duck under the tarp to peer through and see him lounging back on his cot. “Mister Mor—“ Kieran nervously glances over his shoulder, before settling on a much more familiar name: “Arthur.”

Arthur glances up and closes his journal. “Kieran.”

There’s nobody around. The heat at Clemens has been getting unbearable as the months drip into summer. By high noon, it’s not just Uncle who goes belly up somewhere cool and shady. Unless you were on guard duty, most took shelter under the tents, near the waters edge, or anywhere away from the heat. The humidity was something else, though; not like that desert heat, but stuck thick and wet to the back of your neck, your underarms. It’s just another thing Arthur misses about living back west. 

He has the flaps around his tent partially relaxed, to beat out the glare of the sun. A fine little upgrade, along with the map tacked onto the back of the wagon. Kieran ducks into Arthur’s tent, and even the tarp hangs damp and heavy, like the boughs of the willows that skim the edge of the lake near Braithwaite manor. He’s looking a little sweaty, hair hanging limply around his shoulders, his hat barely doing a thing to soak up what sweat is traveling down his forehead.

“Was wondering if you were free, but, uh—“

“I’m free.” Arthur grunts, pointedly dropping his journal face down against his chest.

Kieran takes his hat into his hands. “Well, didn’t know if you noticed, but I’m in need of a trim.”

Arthur has noticed, though he hasn’t said anything, and wouldn’t have. Not his place, really, and he’s not one to talk. Arthur often lets his hair grow out long and wild for random spells, especially when he’s away from camp, until Ms. Grimshaw browbeats him into cleaning and shaving to levels acceptable for society.

“Not especially.” He lies. Because he definitely has noticed Kieran’s hair growing out. He’s been annoying himself every time he notices the way it falls into Kieran’s face while he works, when it got long enough that Kieran swept it up and off the back of his neck into a short ponytail. He’s wearing his hair up and off his neck again, and it looks— pretty? Arthur’s not sure if he likes that word rolling around in his head. Handsome, maybe. 

Kieran sighs, mutters an exasperated _alright_ under his breath as his eyes roll skyward.

Arthur shifts his weight against the cot. “C’mon, don’t be sore. That don’t mean I won’t help you.” Arthur snorts, swinging his feet off his bed and sitting upright. He makes sure to shove his journal under his pillow before he pulls his boots on. “Though, can’t say I’m the best at it. I cut a straight line, is all. Maybe you should ask one of the girls?”

Kieran colors, “That ain’t proper at all.” His eyes shift downwards, “Besides you, I wouldn’t want to ask any of the other men.” The tie twisted around his ponytail isn’t one of Javier’s ties. Arthur’s almost certain it’s one of Mary-Beth’s, a faded blue strip of cloth, more certain as he steps up closer to Kieran.

Arthur’s lips twitch at the corners. “Well, I feel honored.” Though, he’s sure most of the other men would turn him down if he asked them. Maybe not Charles, but Arthur’s not sure how good he is at shaving, either. Other than the long sweep of hair from his head, he’s particularly bare of body hair and always looks clean-shaven.

Kieran clucks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Oh, come on...” He says, his flush getting higher as Arthur stands. 

They’re at even height with each other, when Kieran bothers not to hunch his back, but his posture nearly always seems to be in a state of skulking and flinching. Arthur picks up his hat from where it hangs; as soon as he puts it on, he can feel sweat start to prick against the fabric. “What’re you thinking of?”

“Just a trim. Don’t want nothing fancy.” Kieran says, pressing his own hat to his chest. His hair is getting long— touching his shoulders, nearly, and Arthur reaches out to undo it from the messy ponytail it’s in, pocketing the length of fabric in his breast pocket. Kieran’s eyes follow his hands, looks at his feet when Arthur runs a hand through his hair. It’s too greasy to be tangled, strands separating easily between his thick fingers. Kieran’s beat red, now, even as he leans into Arthur’s touch like he’s starved for it. 

“Y-you should be careful...” Kieran mutters.

Arthur breathes out a chuckle. Hadn’t meant anything rude by it, just seeing how long his hair was. Though, now that Kieran’s mentioned it, Arthur takes the chance to step in closer, just barely keeping a respectable distance between their legs.

“I am careful.” Arthur counters, keeps his voice low, “‘sides, the only thing visible is waist down. They can’t see what I’m touching.” The words hold more of a promise than Arthur had meant, if the way Kieran’s pupils fatten is any indication. Arthur twists his fingers around, hair pulled taut around his fingers, and Kieran makes a low noise in his throat that startles them both. Arthur huffs.

“Maybe I shouldn’t cut it yet...”

“No!” Kieran says, a little too loud. Goes redder still. “I mean... I really need a trim.”

Arthur nods, eyebrows rising. “‘Course.” He’s slow to disentangle his fingers, though, lets his nails scratch against Kieran’s scalp. When his hand is buried in his hair, experimentally, he grips the root of his hair, and Kieran turns into a puddle in his hands, staggering closer to Arthur.

“Y’sure?” Arthur murmurs.

“Yes’m.” Kieran warbles, unconvincingly. 

Arthur laughs under his breath, a throaty noise as he trails his fingers from his scalp down to his face, brushing a thumb against his cheek, tanned from the months spent in Lemoyne. Kieran’s breath audibly catches in his throat. He cups Kieran’s face, lets him lean warm in his palm.  

Arthur grins. He gives his face a pat, two soft slaps against his cheek that make Kieran flinch with each tap. “C’mon.”

Arthur gestures for Kieran to follow, ignoring the mildly wounded stare Kieran throws his way as he disentangles from him easier than he should. He glances around, finds an empty explosives crate at the end of his wagon and drags it around towards the barrel wash station.

“I need water.” Arthur says as he grabs the empty jug off the barrel top. Kieran follows with no other preamble.

It truly is amazing how empty the camp is during high noon when the temperature crawls so high; there’s not a soul in sight, the campfires deserted, tents drawn closed and covered. Arthur can see a few pairs of boots hanging from the ends of the covered wagons, having taken shelter there. Even Pearson is unseen from the chuckwagon table, though Arthur can hear water splashing; one of the few times the man takes over dishwashing duty from the women, an excuse to keep his hands in water and behind the shade the wagon throws when the sun’s as high as it is. He gives them a nod and a shortly muttered greeting when they round the wagon. He’s soaked almost up to his armpits in dish water.

He takes the barrel furthest from Pearson and still mostly clean to fill his wash-jug with. “Go on, dunk your head in the wash barrel.”

Kieran holds his breath, closing his eyes. He looks nearly serene plunging into the water, cool from sitting in the shade, looks absolutely divine when he pulls back with a wet slick of hair and droplets of water rolling down his neck. He huffs out a little breath, running his fingers back and through his hair, pulling it back and away from his face. 

“Yeah?” Kieran asks, searchingly.

“Oh.” Arthur averts his eyes. He hadn’t meant to stare.

Kieran says nothing. When Arthur glances back up, he’s pink and chewing on his lower lip, just threatening to look outwardly pleased. 

Arthur shakes his head like he’s waving off flies, tries to remember what he was supposed to be doing— fill the bucket, of course. It’s embarrassing, at his age, like how Marston used to be led around the nose by Abigail. But they were young things.

“C’mon,” He tries to bring a rougher affect to his voice, in hopes it will distract from how much a fool he’s acting, tilting his hat down over his eyes as he hauls the bucket one-handed back towards the tent. As soon as he steps out from under the shade of the trees, he feels his skin boil. He’s only so affected because the heat is scrambling his brains right under his hat; just the sight of water is setting him on edge, is all.

Kieran follows like a soaked puppy dog, dripping across camp. Arthur sets the jug down onto his shaving station, water sloshing over the rim. Kieran stands, worrying the brim of his hat in his hands, looking keenly aware of his idleness.

“Go on, sit.”

With Kieran’s height, it puts him about even with the mirror Arthur has, conveniently enough. Kieran places his hat on the edge of the barrel, careful not to knock anything over with its wide brim. 

“You want a shave, too?”

“Oh...” Kieran pauses in thought, then nods. “Maybe. If you don’t mind.” He turns his head towards the direction of the pasture, “Though, the horses...”

“They’ll be fine. Won’t take long.” Arthur fills in for Kieran as he trails off. He moves behind Kieran, reaching over him to adjust the mirror; Kieran’s face peers back at him, silhouetted by Arthur’s blue striped shirt. It’s not that Arthur doesn’t know how to handle long hair; he’s nearly grown his own out to shoulder length, before, but he feels unwieldy with his big hands and thick fingers trying to smooth Kieran’s hair back into his grasp. “You want all this off?”

Arthur holds his hair back tight into a ponytail. He squeezes out some of the excess water that’s still left in it, careful not to pull too hard. Kieran turns his head slightly, to get a look at it in profile. “Well, mm. Don’t you think that’s too short?”

“Think you’d look, uh. Fine with it the way it is.” Arthur’s voice goes low and a little scratchy, “But you’re the one who wants a cut.”

Kieran’s reflexion is pink, noticeable even in the warped, cloudy glass. “Really?”

“Not bad when it’s up, like this.” Arthur admits. 

Kieran makes a noise in the back of his throat, somehow sounding dismissive yet still embarrassed.

Arthur slides his fingers down the length of the ponytail. A little shorter than Arthur’s ever personally seen it, but not too short. Still undeniably Kieran. “Here?”

He looks up at Arthur through the mirror. “That’s fine.”

He has a set of old sheers next to the mirror, a little less unwieldy to use as opposed to his hunting knife. He holds Kieran by the ponytail firm as he cuts it off, wet pieces of hair falling down his back, a few strands sticking to the collar of his shirt. As soon as the scissors work through the last of it, he tries to wipe off the majority of hair from Kieran’s back onto the dirt.

“There,” He feels a little silly, tousling Kieran’s hair over his shoulders like he’s an actual barber; it’s a little blunt at the ends, but alright enough for an at-home sort of job. “Looks alright?”

Kieran huffs out a chuckle. “Looks fine.” Arthur’s hand lingers around his temple, idly untucks a bit of hair from behind his ear. He tilts his head towards his touch. “Probably as good as I could’ve done it.”

“Straighten up,” Knuckles pressed to his cheek, he positions Kieran’s head back, “Let me make sure it’s even.”

“Sure it’s fine.” Kieran flushes.

Arthur checks, all the same, combing his fingers through Kieran’s wet hair. He makes a few more snips where it lies crooked against the back of his neck. 

“I wanna just say,” Kieran starts, his voice weak, “That I really ‘preciate you doing this for me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’d say it’s a little bit more than nothing.” He ventures, quiet. Arthur huffs, running his fingers through Kieran’s hair.

“I don’t mind.” He states, firmly. Arthur doesn’t think he has the right to use words like _generous_ in conjunction with a no-good outlaw such as himself; he’s not tight-fisted, is what he is. Doesn’t want the fact that he doles out favors to get out, of course; though, he imagines most of the camp knows, what with them always knocking on his door when in need of a lost necklace, a spare smoking pipe, new books. He’s not fond of the “work horse” nickname, but it does fit.

And in a way, Arthur doesn’t mind. He likes keeping busy, same as Kieran, for probably the same reasons; when he’s moving, he’s not thinking too much, and his mind is quiet as he prepares the soap, sets out the straight razor and a brush. 

Arthur lathers the bristle-bare brush with soap in a small, chipped bowl. He takes Kieran’s jaw in his free hand, leaning in to paint his face with the foam. It’s clear, from the scruff under his fingers, that he hasn’t shaved in some time; it’s unruly and unstyled. The thought of dragging Kieran to a proper barber next time he accompanies him out of camp isn’t unwarranted, though it’s dangerously close to planning an outing with the former O’Driscoll.

Arthur leans in closer, casting a shadow over Kieran; he squirms, minutely, as the wet bristles touch his cheek. He braces himself against the edge of the box Kieran is sitting on, his knee sliding up and pressed to Kieran’s.

“Hold still.” 

“I am.” He mumbles through Arthur’s grasp.

Arthur’s hands look large against Kieran’s jaw, tilting his head back. “Hold stiller.”

Kieran’s tight-jawed gasp through his teeth is unmistakable.

“Alright?”

Kieran makes a garbled noise in the back of his throat, his eyes shifting pointedly, head just barely tilting in the direction behind Arthur. Arthur glances over his shoulder.

He must be on his way to guard watch, from the box of munitions for the carbine repeaters cradled in his hand. Though, Arthur is frankly surprised Bill Williamson hasn’t pawned his shifts off on Lenny or Sean as he usually does, especially with the heat the way it is. Hosea must have had a talk with him about it. He’s stopped, his body turned away from them.

“What’re you two up to?” Bill says, not unkindly, but loud. 

Arthur’s hands still on Kieran’s skin, his sigh coming out as a thin stream of air from his nose. “What’s it look like?”

Bill inches closer. He’s abandoned his jacket, and the parts of his shirt that touch his skin are dark with sweat. “Oh, O’Driscoll boy don’t know how to shave?”

“He don’t own a razor.” As if to make a point, Arthur presses the straight razor against Kieran’s neck, can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly under his thumb as he does so. In one long, slow sweep, he shaves a line through the foam, careful up the curve of Kieran’s neck, revealing smooth skin as he goes. He lets the weight of the razor do most of the work; the only pressure points are his fingers against Kieran’s skin, leaving pink marks in his wake when he adjusts his grip.

He can feel Kieran’s pulse under his thumb, fluttering like a bird in his throat. Arthur inches his hand up the column of his neck, tilts his head back just a bit more; Kieran’s gaze is wide and searching.

Arthur pulls back, flicking used lather onto the ground. Bill fixes them with a strange look that Arthur only meets with a neutral glare. “Coulda just given him yours to use.” He mutters, shifting the box of munitions loudly from hand to hand. Kieran twitches at the first sound of it, flinching dangerously against the razor.

Arthur’s quickly getting tired of Bill. He’s skulking closer and closer to Kieran, his eyes focused on him in a way that’s making Arthur feel prickly and worn thin. “And have him dull the blade to shit?” He asks, pointedly turning back to Kieran. He looks good like this, throat bared. Kieran’s eyes find his. Kieran can’t talk with the way his grasp is on his jaw. Arthur feels something dangerous in the pit of his stomach curl.

“Don’t you have something to do, Bill?”

Arthur doesn’t spare him a glance as Bill leaves, grumbling and mumbling all the while, his voice slowly fading. Kieran’s shoulders relax. Arthur leans in, his leg pressing in between Kieran’s thighs; his nostrils flare as he sucks in a sharp breath, body stilling. Arthur’s always been good at playing dumb. That’s usually his part to play; it’s easy to pretend he doesn’t notice Kieran stiffening underneath him as he runs the straight razor in slow, small movements across his cheek, wiping the blade off on a nearby linen when the lather sticks too thickly to the blade.

He doesn’t shave him clean, but nearly so, allowing some stubble to remain. He likes the idea of Kieran with some hair on him still. His face would look too young without it.

Kieran clears his throat. Arthur moves his hand. “A-almost done?” He croaks.

Arthur shifts, presses his knee against the inside of Kieran’s thigh. Reflexively, he squeezes his legs around him, and then relaxes, his face coloring red. Arthur wants to push his knee in, against his groin, more than anything. But it’s too obvious out in the open like this. “Almost.”

He takes his time finishing Kieran’s face, strips of skin appearing slowly as he shaves him. Kieran’s eyes are big and brown and vulnerable underneath him.

“All done.”

“G-good—“ Kieran shoots up like a bolt of lightning, the empty crate rocking as he scrabbles towards the bucket. His skin is pink where he washes, though Arthur is thinking it’s less from the shave and more from embarrassment; Kieran’s hard in his pants. Arthur can see it, as loose as they are, if only because of Kieran’s stance as he tries to shift his legs. Pressing his thighs together.

Arthur grabs the lip of the water jug and tilts it over onto its side; the water gushes out and over onto the ground. Kieran stares at it, then Arthur, plainly confused. “Look at that. Jug spilled.” Grimshaw will tut at him later over making his living area a muddy mess, but it’s a small price to pay as Kieran goes rabbit-still, realization dawning slow on his face as Arthur says, low, “We’re going to need clean water to rinse you off.”

Kieran’s throat, now cleanly shaven, bobs. “Well, we could go over by the chuckwagon.”

“The chuckwagon?” Arthur’s eyebrows rise. Too literal of an answer. Though heat is curling slow in him at the suggestion— the idea of shucking Kieran’s pants down and hauling him up on the chuckwagon back table, the boxes of beer bottles rattling with his thrusts.

Kieran swallows again, his pupils fat and unfocused. He’s practically buzzing underneath his own skin. “You’re right. Pearson—“ Kieran sucks in a breath, eyes widening, “The boat.” 

He turns his head, looks back at Arthur. He says it a little too loud, keeps his voice clean: “I’ll wash off at the lake’s edge.”

Arthur coughs, hides his mouth behind his hand. Kieran’s certainly no Hosea or Dutch, but neither is he, and it’s as good as a ruse as they’re going to get, if anyone is actually listening. But the camp’s so empty, he doubts anyone is paying them any mind. He shifts from one leg to the other. “Course.” He gestures tightly towards the lake, watching Kieran go. 

Before he follows, Arthur ducks into his tent, mentally counting down from one-hundred in his head. As much as he wants to hurry after Kieran, he doesn’t want to seem too eager, or draw too much attention. He dawdles near his the barrel where he’s left his hair products a mess, adjusting his mirror and idly bundling up his razor. He pockets a tin of hair pomade from the barrel top, leaving when he’s nearly counted down to zero.

Kieran’s at the water’s edge, splashing his face and hair clean with water. Arthur whistles high to grab his attention as he strides towards the small beach inlet, and the ruins of the rowboat there.

Arthur peeks over the edge of the ruined boat. Nobody is lying inside of it, not that he was especially expecting to find anyone; he’s found Sean, once, shirking his guard duties to catch a nap after a long night of drinking, but other than that, Arthur’s sure nobody else would think to check here. 

Before Arthur can straighten himself, he feels something press to his hip, a hand there. The outline of his cock pressed against his thigh, prominent through his pants.

“All good?” Kieran asks.

“Christ,” Arthur colors, “You’re eager.” He swallows as Kieran presses closer. “S’fine.”

“Good.” Kieran moves past Arthur. His hair is all wet again, his neck too. He looks fine shaven like that, just a light amount of stubble. Less dirty looking than usual, though Arthur’s figuring there’s something naturally greasy about Kieran, even if he were clean shaven and dressed in the finest city clothes. 

He scrabbles underneath the boat. Arthur follows, mindful of his head ducking under.

He can feel Kieran’s arms, dragging him down towards the sand, and Arthur breaks the kiss and pulls back. “Wait—“ Arthur undoes his neckerchief as Kieran watches, open confusion on his face, “Don’t laugh,” He forewarns, before he spreads it out behind Kieran, over the sand. “For your head. Though you’re probably going to have to wash after, besides—“

Kieran stops him with his lips, like he’s trying to devour him whole. His words, at least, swallowing them one by one with teeth and tongue, until the only sounds between them is the wet slide of their lips. A bolt of pleasure spikes down Arthur’s spine. Kieran has no timidity in his kissing; it’s all raw want, tongue dipping into his mouth, an endless assault.

From all of the head-dunking and hair-dripping, the top half of Kieran’s shirt is nearly soaked through; the material of it is clinging to his body. Arthur trails his hands down the front of his shirt. His nipples are hard and stiff, prominent enough that Arthur can’t help but run his nails over them as his hands skate downward.

Kieran gasps, sharp, into Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur’s hands skate back up.

Kieran won’t meet Arthur’s eyes. “Now, Mr. Duffy,” Arthur murmurs. He sets his thumb against his nipple, and Kieran has at least steeled himself enough that all he does is take in a soft, shaky inhale. “That was quite the reaction.”

“I... well—“

Arthur rubs his thumb in a circular motion, the wet cotton clinging and tugging; Kieran melts, groaning again, his hand darting up to cover his mouth. 

Arthur knows that they should keep as quiet as they could, considering their closeness to the pasture, and camp. But he feels almost drunk off arousal, the idea that he can coax noises like that from Kieran, noises he’s never heard before now. Arthur hitches the hem of Kieran’s shirt up to his collar bone; his nipples are pert and flushed, just a bit swollen from the rub of his shirt. Arthur rolls the raised nub underneath his thumb, then between his two fingers, just to watch the change in Kieran’s face: the lines on his forehead deepening, brows knotted together, his eyelids fluttering. Whimpering between clenched teeth. He’s _sensitive_. Arthur almost groans, though manages to turn it into a heavy sigh before the noise leaves his lips.

“S’just—“ Kieran slurs, “Feels good.” He groans as Arthur pinches his nipple, twists and tugs and the moan falls broken from Kieran’s lips to the sand.

“Hush,” Arthur murmurs, though he doesn’t want to; every noise from Kieran’s mouth, quavering, is doing things to him that he can’t rightly explain. Arthur’s not experienced by any means, but he’s never gotten someone this worked up before— and he feels wholly possessed by the power of it, leaning down to mouth at Kieran’s collarbone. When he pulls his hand back, Kieran’s breathing flutters, then tapers to a moan as Arthur laves his tongue over the nub, his hand moving to the other nipple.

“M’ tryin’— to keep quiet,“ Kieran whimpers, sucking in a sharp breath as Arthur drags his teeth over sore skin. He moans breathily. “Y’can’t just— d-do that to a man, expect him not to react—“

Arthur wonders if that’s something he’d like, a mouth on his— he pinches Kieran a little too hard, at the thought, and soothes Kieran’s yelp with sloppy, sucking kisses against his nipple that has him writhing and bucking underneath him.

They both hear it, simultaneously, the snap of a twig under heavy footfalls. Arthur hisses, presses his hand pressed to Kieran’s mouth; he exhales shakily against his palm, breath warm on his hand. There are footsteps, slow and heavy, nearby. Arthur steadies his breathing. Feels sweat prickle against the back of his neck, his hearing tunneling to focus.

Leaves rustling. He can hear heavy panting, trying to sound quiet; or maybe it’s the wind breezing through the rustling cattails at the water’s edge.

There’s the snap of a twig, and then another. And then the sounds of someone, whoever, is leaving, grass rustling growing quieter and quieter as they slowly retreat back towards the direction of camp. Kieran sags underneath his arm, with relief, and then licks Arthur’s palm. Arthur pulls his hand away with a frown.

“Close one.” Kieran whispers. Arthur nearly whispers his affirmative, but Kieran’s reaching for Arthur’s belt buckle, and suddenly all the words he can think of fall right from his head. It’s hard to argue that they should try again some other time when Kieran undoes his belt buckle faster than most working girls can manage, faster than Arthur can speak.

Kieran’s fist closes around his cock, pulling him free from his pants, and his hips jerk of their own accord into his hand, any thoughts of dispersing for the day lost to Kieran’s insistent stroking.

“Shit,” Arthur tries to clear his throat as quietly as he can. 

Kieran’s grin is crooked. “Yeah?”

“Hush,” Arthur answers, strangled, and makes good on his command by kissing Kieran hard, his hands clambering to yank his suspenders off his shoulders.

Arthur has to hunch to fuck Kieran like this, on all fours, without banging his head against the top of the rowboat. Arthur manhandles Kieran into the position he wants; he presses Kieran down, until his forearms are against the sand and his cheek is on his neckerchief, ass in the air. He knows his back is going to hurt something fierce after, bending himself like this, but in the moment all he can think of is Kieran prostrate in front of him, the curve of his back, his white shirt hiked halfway up, drenched in sweat and lake water, contoured to the ridges of his rib cage. He’s so lean, his hollow chest expanding as he pants. His balls are hanging heavy between his legs, Arthur reaching under to experimentally squeeze, earning him a muffled moan from the sand.

“Keep quiet,” He murmurs, though Arthur knows he doesn’t have to tell Kieran twice.

He bumps the head of his cock against Kieran’s entrance, once, twice; Kieran bites back a groan as Arthur messily smears pomade between his cheeks. He’s operating mostly on instinct, and he knows he’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but he follows the motions that make Kieran shudder underneath him. He slides his fingers over his hole, pushes his fingertips shallowly in. Kieran’s hips cant, arching to meet Arthur’s fingers. Arthur pulls his ass apart with the other hand, slides his shaft up and between.

“Please,” Kieran’s whisper is ragged.

He’s tight— he’s unstretched, just eager, which is a poor substitute for proper stretching when the head of Arthur’s cock suddenly pushes past the rim, his hips lurching forward. Kieran whines and pushes back and Arthur flexes his fingers hard into the scant flesh of his waist, grounding himself before he finishes too soon. Kieran’s unbearably hot and tight around him; Arthur strokes a hand down his trembling lower back, like he’s soothing an animal.

Kieran gulps air like he’s drowning. “Keep going—“ 

Arthur exhales harshly, waits a beat more before he starts to move. Arthur starts a rhythm from Kieran’s labored breathing, pushing in on his exhale. 

“I’ve wanted to— since the party.” Kieran’s voice wavers, low, “Kept thinkin’ about you taking me like this.”

That’s been a while now, of Kieran thinking like that, Kieran doing every day things like that. Kieran, passing him by with those kinds of thoughts in his head. Arthur tries to keep his breathing steady, tries not to chase his orgasm too fast, especially with words like that urging him on. “Like this?” Arthur hears himself mumble, though he’s not sure where he’s gotten the confidence to say it aloud. But he keeps talking like a man possessed, his hips rolling slow, the drag of his cock wracking shivers through Kieran’s body. “On the sand?” 

“Y-yeah,” Kieran gulps, ragged. “Yeah—“

Arthur lacks any intelligence at the moment, so all he can do is swear under his breath. He presses his chest to Kieran’s back, reaching around to his cock; smearing the precum under his eager fingers, down his length and back up. It’s just slick enough to help his hand move, to ease some of the rough friction of Arthur’s calloused hands pumping him. Kieran moans, then catches it with his own knuckles to his lips, bites down hard. Arthur presses in closer, flexes his hips faster in Kieran, presses his cheek against Kieran’s head, breathes harshly against his ear.

There’s no warning; Arthur’s orgasm hits him too fast, too hard. He finishes in Kieran and presses an open mouth to the back of his head, nose to his damp hair, his groan stilted. Arthur’s hand never slows as he rides out his orgasm, not until Kieran’s coming between his fingers, stifled and silent.

The only cool thing left is Kieran’s hair, still damp against his cheek. There’s a rustle of the wind, nearby— or maybe footsteps, a rabbit scampering off into the woods, but it’s lost as the wind suddenly picks up, and the noise of the leaves rustling become white noise. Arthur exhales against Kieran’s ear. His breathing— their breathing— evens out, starts to sync, with Arthur’s body draped cloyingly over Kieran’s, the soft sound of the nearby water, the far-off wail of the cicadas in the trees. 

Kieran makes a quiet noise, and Arthur grumbles his apology as he removes his body weight from Kieran’s back. His softening cock slides out, and Kieran shudders underneath him.

“Alright?”

“Yeah.” Kieran says, soft, shifts and hisses in undeniable pain. Arthur huffs.

“Don’t sound alright.”

“Gonna be sore.” Kieran admits. He’s still bent over, though his legs, propped up on his knees, are wobbling. Arthur reaches down, bumping his knuckles against Kieran’s arms to lift up as he takes his handkerchief from the sand. Shaking it off, he wipes himself off and tucks his soft cock back into his work jeans; Kieran starts to shift, but he’s quick to hand the handkerchief off to him. Kieran mumbles his thanks.

Arthur climbs out from under the decrepit boat, his joints and back popping as he stands. He’d feel sore if he wasn’t feeling so boneless, but he’s sure the ache will come later, when the glow of his orgasm has faded away. Right now— right now, Arthur feels good, stretching as he looks out onto the water. It’s completely placid, and boater free; a blessing, as anyone coming by would have been able to see everything. 

He turns back in time to watch Kieran, dressed, stagger to his feet— and gasp, when he’s upright, his face going beat red, and his legs tensing.

“What’s...?” Arthur asks.

Kieran shakes his head. “Oh, I—“ He coughs, raising his fist shakily to his mouth, clears his throat. “Just felt some of, uh, you...” His eyes shift downward, and on his gaze back up to Arthur’s eyes, he bites his bottom lip, “Surprised me, is all.”

Arthur’s mouth has never felt drier. For a moment, he’s silent and stumped on how to respond until he tears his eyes away from Kieran’s. “You keep saying things like that, I’ll end up making a habit of it.”

Kieran laughs, high and shrill, nervous, practically tittering. “Arthur Morgan.”

Kieran stumbles closer. Arthur reaches out, palms the back of Kieran’s neck and drags him in close. They’re just far enough from the camp that it would take some squinting to see them past the pasture and the trees; not far enough that he should be doing these kinds of things, but Arthur chances one last kiss, missing Kieran’s mouth entirely and only touching the corner and the fresh stubble of his cheek.

”We’re gonna—“ Even as he says it, Kieran turns his face to Arthur, kisses him proper, his hands fluttering up to his cheeks. “We’re gonna get caught.”

Arthur grunts an affirmative, hopeless as it is, against Kieran’s lips, 

“You’re making me act a right fool.” He mutters, practically scruffing Kieran, his nails lightly biting into the skin of the back of Kieran’s neck. Kieran huffs and flushes, and Arthur’s hand moves from his neck to the back of his head, tousling his hair before he pulls away.

“D’ya think...” Kieran still seems hesitant to pull away, almost reaching for Arthur’s arm, pulling back last minute to adjust his handkerchief around his neck. It barely does a thing to keep him from looking sex-rumpled, his shirt wrinkled and wet and mis-buttoned. Arthur taps the wrongly buttoned button, and Kieran starts to undo and redo it with a grumble. “Or, uh, might I see you later tonight?”

Arthur’s face takes a moment to catch up with his emotions, blank for a beat before he lips are curling. “Oh?” He tilts his head. “You’re a fool, O’Driscoll.”

“I ain’t—!” Kieran looks up from his shirt buttons. His face is turning red so fast, Arthur’s surprised he doesn’t keel over, his blood reversing polar directions so rapidly like that. “I, well, I d-don’t know what you’re talking about! But anyway—“ He reaches upwards, for his hat, but finds air, so instead combs his fingers through his hair. “I may be training the Count, once the sun sets. If you’re interested.”

Arthur snorts. He shakes his head, scuffs his boot against the sand, kicking it up in a small arc. They’re both right fools. Kieran, at least, has an excuse. He’s younger and a former O’Driscoll. Arthur has no reason to be acting like this.

“I may join you.” Arthur mutters, rubbing at his chin.

Kieran hides a bashful grin by ducking his head. He looks sweet, his hair cut just a little past the tops of his ears, near clean shaven. Arthur’s in a particularly good mood, now. Lemoyne has been kind to them; they’re chasing southern gold, honorary sheriffs, swigging moonshine. Sure, it’s hot. But this wet heat has its own perks.

“Come on.” Arthur nods towards camp, starting to walk in that direction. “Let’s head back.”

Kieran smiles, nods, and follows.

—

 

Later on, when Arthur’s changing out of his clothes, the blue ribbon falls from his breast pocket, fluttering down to land on the sheets of his cot. It takes him a moment to remember what it is, as he picks it up and turns it over in his hand, twists it around his thick fingers. He clutches it tight in his fist and reaches under his pillow, tucking it between the pages of his journal.

It makes a fine bookmark, though quickly the powder-blue mottles from being pressed between lead markings all the time, turning more of a tattletale grey. Arthur doesn’t mind. It works all the same, keeping his most recent page, or he leaves it between pages he wants to note for later. 

Arthur tucks the ribbon back into the spine of his journal, along with his pencil. He’s got the pier just how he likes it; the sun starting to dip just so, heat still shimmering through the air. When the bugs are out flying low and the fish leave ripples over the surface trying to feed. He thinks, though, now looking at the sketch, he might like the idea of the scene more because of the sound of it. The cicadas wailing nearby. The general din of camp starting to rouse at his back. Pearson sharpening his knives at his table, Grimshaw calling the girls to fetch the laundry dried from the noon sun, Dutch’s gramophone crackling to life. The sketch is nice, but it’s not exactly this moment, as much as Arthur would like to capture its exact likeness. It’s an approximation.

He slides his journal back into his satchel, turning to walk up the incline, towards the scout fire and Strauss’ wagon. He tilts his hat to Mary-Beth as he passes.

“Say Morgan, Morgan,” Bill’s voice calls out to him; Arthur turns his head, slowing his gait. “You got any hair pomade?”

“Excuse me?” He narrows his eyes. Bill is sitting wide-legged next to the domino table, though the pieces are neatly piled to the side. He’s never seen Bill play; he’s more of a poker man, or five finger fillet, though the knife wedged into the tabletop looks clean of recent blood.

“You know...” Bill leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. He kicks his feet up onto the table. He grabs the handle of the knife, rocking it back and forth as he yanks it from the clutches of the table.

Arthur doesn’t know. Bill’s leveraging him this sort of look that’s making Arthur want to come over and punch him in the jaw; like he’s got a secret, some sort of joke that Arthur’s clearly not in on, because he doesn’t understand the humor. He doesn’t know what the joke is, but he does know it’s at his expense.

“Hair pomade.” Bill reiterates. He clumsily points the knife towards Arthur, fumbling with the handle.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Well,” Bill smiles a knowing smile, “If you happen to find some...”

Arthur exhales noisily from his nose, reaching for his satchel. He may actually have a half-filled tin in here. The contents of his bag are ever-changing and widely varied: a carefully wrapped oriole carcass, classic oatcakes, a half-drunk bottle of foul elixir. A tin of hair pomade would not be unusual amongst the mess. Though he’s not sure why Bill can’t ask around, maybe see if Pearson will fetch him some when he goes into Rhodes to pick up supplies. He pulls out his journal by the spine, shifting his things in his bag from one side to the other with his other hand; the clumsy way he’s holding it, the pages flutter open, and the ribbon falls from the book. Arthur watches it go, mutters annoyedly under his breath as he shoves his journal back into his satchel.

Bill sucks in a sharp breath. Arthur glances up.

A sea change has come over Bill’s face; he looks at it on the ground like it’s something dead and foul, a horse to a snake, rearing back as if the ribbon may leap up and strike him. It lays in the dirt limply.

He knows. Bill knows, wounded eyes going from the ribbon to Arthur, his face contorted in raw confusion. The pieces slide into place for Arthur, though he trains his face neutral. He must have heard him and Kieran, or thought he heard something— not fully knowing until Arthur, fool as he is, threw it in his face. It was a joke up until that moment; until Bill saw it, a crimson letter in the dust.

Even more hurtful, Arthur knew, because only someone who looked at Kieran as much as he did would even recognize the ribbon. No normal person would note something so minor, the way Kieran had tied his hair up just so, a clumsy knot that came undone as he moved to bale the hay and brush the horses—

A silence stretches uncomfortable between them, made even worse by the general din surrounding them; the camp is starting to come alive now that the sun isn’t blazing overhead. He has to move first. He leans down to pick it up; Bill’s eyes follow him the entire way.

Bill sneers, forcibly thrusting the knife back into the table, his knuckles white around the hilt, From the corner of Arthur’s eye, he can see Strauss turn from his table at the sound of the metal burying into the wood.

“Sure...” He doesn’t return the ribbon to his journal, but instead tucks it into his vest pocket, presses his palm briefly to his chest. He can feel his heart hammering underneath, the way it does when he’s in a fire fight and focuses all of his attention on shooting straight and true, the world slowing down around him. “I’ll buy you some hair pomade.” Arthur says evenly.

Bill’s lip curls back. “Thanks, Morgan.”

Arthur makes a beeline for his cot. Bill isn’t like Micah. He’s loyal to Dutch, as they all are, but he’s not conniving. Arthur doesn’t think he has the gumption to leverage this information against him, hiss in Dutch’s ear how his prized work horse is bedding an ex-O’Driscoll. Letting his heart grow soft on someone barely vetted and known to give up information as soon as he’s stuck between a rock and a pair of gelding tongs.

And Arthur knows something about him now, too. From the safety of his tent, Arthur peers around the wagon, watches Bill’s back at the table. It makes sense, now, the way he skulked around Kieran. Williamson has run with the gang for years, now. Arthur knows his ways. This isn’t the first man he’s pined for; he gets lovesick, and it makes him act stupid, makes him mean. He doesn’t relish the possibility of being in the middle of Bill like that.

Arthur grabs the near-empty tin of hair pomade from his barrel-top. He twists off the lid, glancing around surreptitiously before reaching into his satchel.

By the time he makes his way back to the table, Javier’s also found his way there, sitting across from Bill, twisting his own knife between his fingers. He sets it down to touch the brim of his bowler hat, towards Arthur.

“Morgan.”

He looks smartly dressed, as always, genially pleasant. There’s nothing in Javier’s face that shows Bill said anything to him. “Javier.” Arthur greets, glancing at Bill. His face is dark, pointedly looking away from Arthur. 

“Here’s that, er...” Suddenly, Arthur is keenly aware of his audience, and he hesitates. “Hair pomade you wanted.”

He’s not sure if Bill expected Arthur to actually follow through with that request, the way his eyes widen and then narrow on Arthur. Bill reaches out; Arthur places the pomade, lid side down, into Bill’s palm. The round tin rattles with coins when Bill pockets it. Javier’s eyes shift, but his face is otherwise neutral.

“Well, look at that.” Bill says with a throaty chuckle and bared teeth. Arthur frowns. “Thanks Morgan. I owe you one.”

Arthur steps to the table, leaning against the edge, towards Bill. Arthur’s voice is low, and soft, his hand curling into a fist against the table top. It’s not an outward threat. He’s not trying to look particularly threatening, the way he does when he’s trying to scare money from a debtor so he doesn’t have to resort to violence. But something bleeds into his voice, all the same, the wolf that runs under his seams: “I reckon we should both forget this ever happened.”

Bill says nothing. Arthur can feel Javier’s eyes on him. It makes him reign back, pulling into himself. Smoothing over his expression. Arthur smiles, tight-lipped, raps his knuckles against the table.

“Catch you later, then?”

Javier barely waits for him to turn his back on the table until he’s asking Bill, “What’s wrong with him?” purposefully loud enough for Arthur to hear. He wont take the bait; he doesn’t look back, but he can hear the clatter of a chair ricocheting loud against the ground.

“Nothing, Escuella! You always have to be nosy?”

Arthur must imagine Javier’s confused, but he understands. What’s Bill to gain by outing him? Not Kieran Duffy. They’re outlaws, far from gentlemen, but they have their own codes and Bill’s not going to spread around Arthur’s personal life like that. Bill might be sick with envy now, but he’s not a rat.


	2. too much to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please mind the tags!!

Dutch, like he usually does, corners Arthur at the moment he both needs and doesn’t need a distraction: Micah’s still off the path near Strawberry, waiting by the cliff side for Arthur after his harebrained rescue from the gallows. Dutch’s new horse had kept him busy; he should have sent another to fetch him, given the task to Lenny or Sean, but Arthur doesn’t like the idea of sending the younger ones out to ride with Micah. They’re grown, sure, but Micah invites the kind of risk someone with less skill could get shot over.

Maybe, he should be worried about this Bill situation. This Kieran situation. But it’s not his job to think on that now. Arthur tacks his war horse up himself quick, and kicks off on the path just short of a gallop. 

His horse is agitated the entire way there, though maybe it’s because Arthur is riding him too hard; he’s on edge, spurs biting at his flank when he slows crossing near the Dakota river. He knows he is acting mean for no good reason. It doesn’t change his actions, though it nags at the back of his head more than it should.

Finally, he lets the horse rest when the air gets too cool. He takes the horse off the road to pull his coat from his saddlebags. It’s much crisper this far north, and the sweat on his dress shirt has long since wicked away. He turns the lined collar of his coat up until he’s gotten over the chill that’s settled in his skin. The faster he arrives, the less time he has to himself, with his own thoughts churning.

He could spends the night camped with Micah, and they’d depart at daybreak, he imagines. But Arthur would rather shoot himself in the foot, and ends up camping off the road, just south of Monto’s Rest. He sleeps rough with just his horse, a small fire and a bedroll amongst the trees. Blowing on his hands to warm them as the temperature dips, and his breath comes out in smoke even without a cigarette between his lips.

Micah has never been his favorite person. His attitude, and the way he carries himself is grating. It’s another blessing in disguise, because Arthur’s irritation and the job at hand clears his mind faster than any drink has ever managed. 

They’re robbing a stagecoach. It’s poorly planned from beginning to end. He’s managed on lesser dregs of information, but never from someone like Micah Bell, secondhand from an O’Driscoll. He doesn’t even have the gall to act the least bit sorry when they ride into trouble.

(Arthur thinks, in that moment between the stolen stagecoach crashing from the O’Driscoll ambush and him soaring through the air into the riverbank, that he was sick and tired of every single O’Driscoll past, present and future, though the thought’s gone just as quickly when he nearly dashes his gray matter across the river rocks, only very nearly missing by the learned and now automatic movement of tucking his shoulder in and rolling as he lands.)

Arthur’s soaked through to his long johns as he scrambles for cover. If there’s one good thing about Micah Bell, it’s that he’s a crack shot. They kill what feels like thirty men, just the two of them with only the splinters of a stagecoach as cover.

Arthur’s breathing heavy through his nose, reloading his newly pilfered Lancaster with cartridge with a swift ease. “Why is it every job I do with you ends in a pile of dead bodies?” Arthur grouses. They’re all in the water, now, some facedown, some floating on their back, stray limbs caught on the edges of rocks where the current tries to sweep them away. Fast enough current that the blood is being carried away from their boots, instead of staining the water and seeping into their socks.

No more seem to be coming, but Arthur’s readying himself either way, cranking the lever with a mechanical sound as he chambers a fresh round.

“Since when did you have a problem killing O’Driscolls?” Micah replies sardonically, splashing his way through the shallows.

Arthur feels himself chuckle before he can even attempt to quash it, bubbling up along with the adrenaline still fraying his nerves. “Huh. _Heh_.” It’s funnier than it should be, funnier than Micah realizes. “You got a point.”

Arthur shoots the safe on the back of the coach open, and him and Micah carry the lockbox to the pebbled banks. He’d rather open it, but Micah’s already kneeling down before he gets a chance, knocking the lock off three swings in with the butt of his pistol. 

Shadow looming, Micah’s head tilts, just enough to glance at Arthur, confirm his presence. He must weigh his choices, smartly, for once, as he flips open the top and shuffles away from the open box instead of shoving his grubby hands into the case.

“Look at that.” He whistles lowly, conversationally, almost, “What’s the cut here?”

Bending down to inspect the contents, Arthur’s shoes squelch with water. It’s going to be a cheerless ride back, but at least the take seems worth it. “It’s good.” Arthur splits it evenly; he’s never been awful fast with math, having been taught the basics by Hosea and Dutch as a boy, but he’s never miscounted stacks of cash, grabbing them two at a time to shove his share into his satchel.

The rest, he pushes into Micah’s hands. “Just make sure the camp gets its piece.”

“Yeah, yeah...” They whistle for their horses.

Micah always has to get the last word in before he leaves, something about trees and shadows, but Arthur doesn’t give in to that kind of nonsense. He just firmly reminds him about the camp one last time before the man mounts Baylock and gallops away.

His horse is waiting, just shy of the water and downstream of the wreckage and the smell of death. Arthur pauses on his way over to rifle through the pockets of a few bodies leaching red into the water. Only checks their satchels, if they have them, tries not to keep his eyes long on their miserable faces. He keeps it brief, before the law makes their way through.

At the very least, it’s late noon by the time Arthur’s making his way up towards Horseshoe Overlook, so the sun is high enough to make the ride a little more bearable in his slowly drying clothes. Arthur takes the slow way home, to let his horse rest after how hard he’s pushed him the past two days. The warhorse is stubborn, but he doesn’t deserve it, not really. Arthur feeds him too many oat cakes from his satchel bags; he nickers and snorts, and accepts the peace offering greedily.

 

—

Every time he’s had the choice between Mary Linton and the gang, time and time again, he goes back to the gang. Mary had a ways of convincing him to do anything but what he was supposed to be doing at the time. At least, compared to what the gang thought he should be doing, at the time. She was good at giving orders, and Arthur rarely disappointed. Nobody in the gang has ever liked her. They tell him as much every time she sends a letter or telegram for him.

Eliza, too, was left when the gang needed to pick up and move, months separating their visits. He liked Eliza well enough, and loved Issac far but fond, loved them both much more fiercely as soon as he was gone.

Eliza broke his heart. She didn’t deserve that, snuffed out so bright and young. It had been the first time he realized there were consequences to interacting with honest types of folk. Somehow, he knows it was his fault, though Hosea and Dutch had consoled him otherwise over many bottles of whisky and rye. Bad things happen to bad men.

Abigail— he hesitates to call what they had anything much. That was back when Uncle was in charge of the girls, instead of Grimshaw. Abigail was a working girl back then, before John got her pregnant, before Tilly and Mary-Beth and Jenny. When they settled near a town, Uncle would seat himself at the bar, and they’d find work.

Arthur never paid her. She came to him of her own accord every time. Sometimes he thought she was just acting sweet because she pitied him. Arthur knows he’s nothing special in the looks, dull other than his shooting and thieving, and neither of those skills were much appropriate when wooing.

It felt like something, though he doesn’t like to admit it, especially now that she’s with John. They’re friends, now. He’ll always be soft on her, or whatever approximation of fondness that cold, black heart of his can mimic; he only wants the best for her. (Which is John, sadly, if he can manage to be the man he should be for her. If he can manage not to make all the mistakes Arthur has.) He had been hesitant to pay as much attention to her in public as he should have, kept his fondness for her snorting laughs and strong-headed ways secret. So secret, maybe, Abigail hadn’t known either, because she drifted from him all the same.

It felt right to keep her at arm’s distance. Mary had gotten close. Ran with them for a time, even, and some late nights when he can’t get to sleep and he has just enough to drink Arthur swears, she would have stayed with them, too. And then her Daddy found out. Everyone beckons to a call. Mary to her father, him to Dutch. Being soft isn’t his way, he’s sure of that.

He has no doubt Dutch would look at him different if he knew. Kieran had been an O’Driscoll less than a few months before. Dutch trusts him not to turn on him, but he hasn’t been forthcoming with an abundance of goodwill; he turns a blind eye to the majority of the roughhousing Kieran experiences, even when it happens right under his nose.

What was it? Revenge was a fool’s folly?

He rightly felt like a fool himself.

Arthur approaches camp slowly. Lenny is at guard, but he has better eyes than Bill or John, and spies him coming through before he needs to yell; he waves at Arthur, and Arthur taps the brim of his hat back as he trots into the clearing.

As soon as he clears the tree line, he can hear Micah’s voice, just loud enough to bother without being able to clearly make out the words he’s saying. He’s clearly shouting, but he turns his warhorse firmly towards the pasture, instead of angling around towards the beach. He’s had enough of Micah for one day.

“Mr. Morgan.”

He almost doesn’t recognize Kieran, for a moment, clean and groomed as he still is. There’s something off about his face, too, that Arthur recognizes as soon as his thoughts catch up to his brain; Kieran’s got the corner of his eye socket shining.

He’s hoping it was an errant horse, but knows better that it was someone’s knuckles, drunkenly clipping the side of his head. Arthur says nothing, but feels his nostrils flare as he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight. If Kieran hears, he makes no motion nor mention, taking the war horse’s reins from Arthur’s grip.

He doesn’t mention that Arthur missed his invitation to watch him train the Count, either. “Where’d you two get off to?” Kieran asks, his tone amiable, nervously genuine. His eyes look particularly green surrounded by the maroon mottling around it.

“Strawberry.” Arthur grunts. His body aches as he swings his legs off and over his horse, a little unsteady on his feet when he lands. “Mr. Bell decided he wanted to bring back a haul before he made his grand entrance, but couldn’t do it without someone else.”

Inexplicably, Arthur wants to touch it— Kieran’s face, his eye, and though he refrains the want remains. He settles, instead, for hooking his thumbs around his belt loops.

Kieran squints across the pasture, towards the ruckus Micah’s still making over by the tithing box and Dutch’s tent. Now that Arthur thinks about it, Kieran may not remember him much. He’s been gone since him and Lenny scouted ahead from Colter.

“Loud, huh?”

“Kind way of putting it, yeah.”

Kieran snorts in amusement. “You get anything worth the trouble, at least? Something good?”

“Not bad. Haven’t been anywhere safe to count it yet, but I’d say fifteen hundred, total, to split between us and the camp.” Arthur says, absently patting his satchel. Once he’s put in the camp’s portion, and tithed some more for camp supplies, then he’ll get excited to see what he’s personally pulled. “Good haul, not sure if it was worth it.”

The warhorse stomps his feet. Kieran’s immediately pulled from the conversation; he starts to loosen the belt of the saddle, before the horse gets impatient and nips. Arthur finds himself helping him, instead of walking into camp.

He could tell himself it’s because Micah may still be over by Dutch’s tent, though the air has gone silent, save for the far-off call of waterfowl flying overhead, the bugs and the horses and the wind going through the trees. Not really silent, then, and not really alone. His eyes keep finding Kieran’s face, even as he pulls the bridle from his horse and the warhorse snorts and pulls back when he has to wrestle it off. The left eye, that black eye. It’s dark and fresh on Kieran’s face, the colors of wildflowers just shy of winter rot.

Arthur’s stare darts away just as Kieran’s flit over.

Kieran throws his saddle over one of the hitches. It’s a rough motion, with saddles heavy as they are, so Arthur doesn’t take the weight of his throw very personal. Says, with his fingers trailing over the leather, “You— you gonna ask about my eye, or are you just going to keep ogling at it?”

Arthur huffs, shakes his head. “Weren’t ogling.” Kieran has a smart mouth. His eyes swivel back, and he steps in towards Kieran.

“Well, then. You want to tell me where you got that shiner from, O’Driscoll?”

Kieran scoffs, looks away. He doesn’t need to answer. Arthur thinks that’s clear enough

“Bill knows.” Arthur starts. “Or, he figures he knows something.”

“I know he knows.” Kieran says, a little sharp. Not exactly cutting him off, but cutting in before he can say anything else. Kieran frowns. “Is— I-Is this a problem?” It’s not a nervous little frown, the kind he usually wears on his face, but something a little bolder, tone accusatory: it seems to startle them both, because Kieran is immediately ducking his head down, hiding his face behind the wide brim of his hat.

Arthur exhales. More of a sigh.

“I don’t know.” He admits.

“Dutch don’t care. About—“ Kieran lowers his voice, eyes shifting. As if this is new information for Arthur, something secret. “I mean, he is— he’s got Molly, but Hosea—“

“Who d’you think you’re talking to, Duffy?” Arthur cuts him off, warningly. Not that it’s not talked about. It’s just— complicated. Too complicated for someone like Kieran to understand. The time he’s been with the gang is a drop in the bucket compared to Arthur. Molly’s not like Annabel, and so far-off from Grimshaw, the similarities end past knowing Dutch in an intimate fashion. She doesn’t care to understand what Hosea and Dutch are. It’s been a good excuse for Dutch lately, when he makes these plans and retires to his tent, and Hosea can’t follow, can’t fight him on how reckless he’s been acting recently.

“I don’t mean it like that.” Arthur starts. Stops. Clears his throat. “Dutch don’t trust you just ‘cause of one horse.” Arthur says, and immediately regrets his decision to: he’s just voiced it to himself, that he trusts Kieran himself because of a week long jaunt to find a horse.

Kieran’s avoidant, eyes darting everywhere but Arthur. “I get it. You don’t trust me, either—“

“No.” Arthur talks over the hurt in Kieran’s voice. “No, that ain’t it. I mean. I do trust you.” He mutters, reluctant, “Now I just feel stupid about it, when I say it like that. But—”

It’s been more than a horse. The past few weeks, they’ve been friendly. Arthur’s happened to be eating dinner around the scout fire while Kieran has. Trying to draw the chickens for no reason more apparent than being able to be closer to the pasture. Fussing a bit more with his horse so that he and Kieran could chat. And physically, well, that needed no explanation.

Dutch doesn’t know that. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t tell him, because Arthur knows how quickly he sours when he feels slighted. Remembers how he wept when they found Annabel. With how prickly he’s been lately, the last thing Arthur wants to do is put any more stress on their situation. “I don’t want to risk it.”

Kieran, bold, infinitely stupid: “Risk what?”

He knows. He’s sure Kieran does, too, the way he stares, the way it makes him look off and shift his weight from foot to foot. Them, us. And the risk, even Arthur doesn’t really know, but it’s the thought of it that’s haunting. They’re not O’Driscoll’s. They’re not. They’ve never gone through a camp of women and children and burnt it to the ground. They don’t do those kinds of things. But—

Arthur sighs, frowns, mutters. The words feel like they’d come easier if he reached down his own throat to pull them out. “I don’t know.” An unease hangs in the air. Arthur shifts, feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Something curls hot in his gut. Without much thought, he says, “You talk to him much?”

Kieran looks taken aback, immediately, almost stumbling back from Arthur as if his words were blows. The warhorse nickers quietly, shaking its head as Kieran flexes his fingers in its mane, looking like he’s trying to anchor himself there. “What? Who?”

“Who do you think?” Anger is bubbling up in his gut, and its bleeding into his tone, “Bill. I can’t be around all the time to protect you,” Arthur says, the words coming out quick in his anger, which has creeped up too fast for him to realize where it even came from. Too quick for him to comprehend, the way his anger does sometimes.

It feels like it’s always something simmering underneath, waiting, biding, and that’s what Mary-Beth never seems to understand when she lends her ear. How quickly it comes, and overtakes; the way it makes his voice drop low, and furious, even as Kieran flinches away from him: “You need to stop doing whatever you’re doing, inviting this attention on.”

Kieran’s body goes rigid; Arthur can see the anger rise up, indignation shooting up his chest and squaring his shoulders. He takes a step forward.

“Y-you think I have any hand in this?” Kieran’s voice trembles, “You— you, you think I like him sniffing around me?” His voice goes low, whispered through clenched teeth as he sweeps his hand back, towards camp, and then points at Arthur with two fingers, a sharp jab that cuts through the air, nearly close enough to touch him. “You think if I knew what I was doin’ to get Bill’s eyes on me, I wouldn’t stop doing that?”

Arthur stops, and stares. Kieran’s breathing heavy, holding Arthur’s gaze. Unashamedly angry, in a way that looks more strange on his face than a new haircut ever could.

Exhaling, Arthur feels his narrowed glare go soft, features slackening as the guilt sets in much faster than it took the understanding to.

“No. Suppose not.”

Kieran still has anger shivering up his spine. “You blame the hens when a fox gets in?”

“I’m—“ Arthur knows he’s stepped in it. He holds up his hands, palms outward, his shoulders hunching. “You’re right. Stupid of me to think that.”

Kieran shakes his head, turns his back on Arthur.

“Wait.”

He reaches for Kieran’s arm, but doesn’t take it. Kieran stops, regardless. As if he felt the presence of his fingers skimming by before lamely settling back at his side. “Kieran.”

“What?”

“Look,” Arthur’s voice is real low, a whisper, “I’m serious. I’m a fool. I’m sorry.”

Kieran’s still all gathered-up like a spitting cat, which means he’s actually his height, for once, taking a half-step forward as he spins around; he nearly bumps into Arthur, though it startles Kieran more than Arthur, his face jumping. “Never asked you to protect me or anything of that sort, besides.” He says, pointed, “Thought I made that real clear.”

He hadn’t asked. And they did make it clear, as clear as day.

“I’m a fool.” He repeats.

Kieran mutters something unheard under his breath. “You mean it?”

“No, I do.” Arthur rubs at his face. “Just tired. Thinking nonsense. I don’t think— you ain’t to blame.”

The space between them has cooled. Arthur doesn’t know what he’s still standing there, in the pasture, when his cot and a bowl full of Pearson’s stew is calling to him. Doesn’t know why he thought all that time, on his way back, on Mary and Eliza and Abigail. Just because they’d—

He’s putting the cart before the horse, isn’t he?

Kieran fidgets, looking off. He’s clearly itching to bolt off, that same face he gets when he’s stuck between a rock and another taunting gang member. “I oughta get back to work. The horses...”

Arthur nods, self-consciously touching the brim of his hat. “Of course. Sure.” He ducks his head, half-turns, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

 

—

Williamson’s apparently made himself scarce, having dragged Lenny out to find some hapless fools to rob. According to what the girls say in their mending circle, they’re going to the northern part of Lemoyne, almost Roanoke Ridge, to rob a family at some pig farm.

“Lenny said some prisoner told him about where they going.” Tilly says, minding her fingers as she quickly pulls the thin needle through the fabric splayed over her lap, “He found this man still in his stripes off the side of the road, run off from the chain gang and still shackled up!” 

Mary-Beth seems like she’s heard the story before, as she doesn’t even look up from her work, as excitedly as Tilly as recounting the tale. They haven’t been carted to the city for any work past domestic since Horseshoe; few of the stories they have now are anything they’ve had a hand in. “He had to shoot the chains right off his feet. Man was so grateful, so he told him about the farm.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, “Huh. Instead of paying him anything, I’m guessing.” He says, a little drier than intended, “Hope the tip turns out good, considering it came from a man who’s dumb enough to get caught.”

Tilly purses her lips in thought. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” She glances up at him, and the faint worry creasing her forehead almost makes Arthur regret his cynicism.

“I’m sure they’ll stay safe, though.” Arthur assures her. 

Mary-Beth hisses next to Tilly as she catches the pad of her finger on a needle, hard enough to prick through her calluses. Tilly glances over with passing concern. “Lenny’s more levelheaded than Mr. Williamson is.” Mary-Beth says with her finger in her mouth, and Tilly nods in agreement, “They seem to work together well, on account of that.”

“Lenny’s smart enough for the both of them,” Tilly says with a smirk.

“Now, I ain’t never said that,” Mary-Beth bumps Tilly’s shoulder with a giggle, “That’s a lot of smarts Lenny would have to make up for.”

Arthur has to chuckle, because they’re certainly not wrong. Lenny is bright though, and Williamson, as furious as he is towards him right now, has the experience to make up for whatever Lenny lacks. There’s no real reason to worry about them.

Before Arthur forgets, he returns the faded ribbon to Mary-Beth; tries to, anyway, though she smiles and titters and tells Arthur to keep it. It’s frayed and worn all the same, and she’s stolen something much nicer off a parlor lady in Rhodes recently, besides.

Even though the girls are more than willing to lend Arthur an ear anytime Grimshaw isn’t driving them to work, it’s a naggingly unbearable three days of choring and loitering around camp; though Arthur doesn’t mean to, he’s keeping an amount of space between him and Kieran, as well. Not purposefully. They keep almost-crossing, glancing across the camp. But he’s not one to press on matters like this, so he keeps his distance, watching the skin around his eye mottle and fade from dark blue to yellow.

In truth, Arthur hadn’t expected to see Kieran approach him, but he’s also quick to spy the fishing rod slung over his shoulder. Arthur chuckles mirthlessly to himself. Not for him, then.

Though Kieran seems to be doing his darndest not to look at Arthur, he slows his pace as he approaches. Enough that by the time he reaches Arthur, his slow to a stop feels real natural, almost like he accidentally ended up there, settled in by his side.

Arthur can feel the tension that he’s been holding in him crack open, relief washing over him before he even opens his mouth. “Kieran.”

Kieran clutches his rod close to his chest, “Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur pulls a cigarette from a blood-stained pack in his breast pocket. Lights it, and takes a drag. He offers it to Kieran, a quiet peace treaty, and though he has to shuffle the rod between his hands he takes it from Arthur. He takes a drag and doesn’t hand it back.

Arthur hinges his thumb into his belt. “So.” He trails off, watching Kieran take another drag of his cigarette. He’s not very good at being standoffish, as he keeps surreptitiously glancing Arthur’s way, but he’s clearly trying his best at it, near smoking half of his cigarette before he hands it back.

“So,” Kieran says, “How’re things?” His voice cracks a little. It reminds Arthur of how he lied tied up on that tree, the way his voice weakly trilled as he insisted he knew nothing about Colm or any other O’Driscoll boys. Arthur heaves a sigh.

“Been better.” He clears his throat, “Your eye’s lookin’ better.”

“Thanks.” Kieran mumbles.

Arthur knows he’s being stubbornly roundabout with this, but he doesn’t know any other way to say it. “Bill’s still out with Lenny.”

He scrunches his nose. “Kind of long for one home robbery, ain’t it?”

Arthur shrugs. “Nah. Maybe take a day, two day ride up, depending if they got sidetracked getting supplies in Rhodes and drinking. Another day to scout it out, if Lenny has his say in it. Bill hates waiting.” He exhales a stream of smoke, “Which is why he usually acts like a moron.”

Kieran snorts. “You could say that.”

“Could, and I mean it.” Arthur reiterates, holds Kieran’s gaze. “He’s a moron. Ain’t your fault. I’m sorry I ever acted any other way.”

“I-I get it.” Kieran falls silent, scrubs his free hand over his face. Nods. It takes him a moment to croak, “And Bill?”

“What about him?” Arthur says, looking off over the water. The cigarette exchanges hands. “He won’t bother us.”

“Yeah?” Indignation creeps into Kieran’s voice.

“There’s a reason he made himself scarce. He knows I wouldn’t—“ Arthur bites his tongue.

Bill’s an idiot, everyone knows that. But he’s got at least a few brain cells rattling in that head of his, and he can play dumb as much as he pleases, but that’s not going to save him. “Well. You’re a grown man. We both are.” Arthur rushes to clarify before Kieran can speak again; as nervy as he is, he’s awfully good at rushing to conclusions and stuttering off instead of just listening. “I know you said you don’t need my protection. I know, but understand....” Arthur breathes in deep. The humidity is clinging to his lungs in a way that makes him want to cough out something that isn’t really there. Might be the residual of the tobacco smoke, too; he clears his throat. 

Finally, he turns his face. Kieran’s staring at him. He can’t read his expression; Kieran’s just quiet, lips pressed in a firm line. Swaying just slightly, even in stasis, the nervous way he almost always seems to be moving. Vibrating under the surface.

Arthur exhales, audible, the words on the tip of his tongue.

“I get it, I get it. Alright.” Kieran says, before Arthur can speak, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear water from his ears.

Maybe he does. Maybe Kieran realizes. Though Arthur hesitates to believe he really understands the lengths he’d go, in the instance that Bill would threaten Kieran with violence again, if he would do some of the things he’s seen Bill do in anger when he can’t get what he wants. If he realizes that Arthur would lay his hands on Bill in a way that would rend him apart, tear him to pieces.

Arthur realizes it, and it scares him more than it should. Absently, he presses the heel of his palm to his chest.

“Won’t happen again, at least,” Arthur says, voice like gravel. Kieran’s expression twists, hurt. Arthur clears his throat, gestures with his chin towards his face, the black eye that’s slowly mellowing out, looking sickly yellow against his skin. “That, I mean. Not...” 

The rest goes unsaid, like so many things do. Unnecessarily, Arthur clears his throat, keeps his face neutral. Kieran’s expression softens, and he turns his head. He looks flushed, a pinkness tinging his ears. He doesn’t have anything much better to say than to repeat, muttering, unconvincingly, “Don’t— don’t need your protection.”

“Know you don’t need it.” Arthur repeats. He shifts his jaw, trying to work out his next words. He says them to the lake, and not Kieran. “But... don’t want you to get hurt, neither. Bill Williamson is...”

Kieran snorts. “A fool.”

“And a stone-cold killer.” Arthur grimaces.

“Ain’t we all?” Kieran asks.

Arthur laughs. “I guess, sure.” Kieran’s surely killed a few men. He forgets that sometimes, even though it’s Kieran’s bullet that’s saved him once.

The cigarette is growing warm near Arthur’s knuckles, having burnt down so low. He takes one last drag and passes it off; Kieran finishes it, flicks the butt towards the beach, and then looks sort of sorry watching it fly through the air, as if he wanted to save the burnt end for later.

Kieran exhales. “Y’wanna....” He gestures with his rod, “Go fishin’ with me?” His voice goes a little high at the end, nigh-reedy, chancing a somewhat crooked smile Arthur’s way. “Sundown like this, there’s a lot of bugs over the water, and the fish come out to eat.”

Arthur hides a smile behind a palm he rubs back and forth over his mouth. “S’pose I wouldn’t mind, though speaking of eating,” He jerks a thumb back, towards camp, “I’ll grab some bread and jerky from the wagon before we head on out.”

Kieran’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s failing to contain the boyish grin slowly spreading across his face. There’s a sudden energy to him, as he leans in, “A picnic on the lake?”

Arthur huffs, and scowls, feels a heat crawl up past his collar.

“I would...” Kieran’s voice cracks a little as he just barely bumps Arthur with his shoulder, barely rocking him. He’s awfully light, slighter than Marston, even, and that unruly man has the wasp-waist of a high-class lady. Something he’s teased Marston at length for, but he doesn’t mind it much on Kieran. Especially when Arthur reaches for that waist, and his oversized jacket and shirt billow and push in until he finally connects with the man underneath. “W-Well, Well— I’d be flattered, Mr. Morgan.”

It’s a brief touch; just as quickly, he’s pulling back, twisting away from Kieran. “Smart ass.” He replies, and then, “Wait for me by the boat.” Nodding towards the secondhand paddle boat Hosea acquired docked at the water’s edge.

The sun’s slipping further across the sky. Pearson makes no mention when Arthur takes rations for two; if he’s secretly harboring a problem with it, Arthur figures he’ll be more than happy when they return with a bucket of fish, besides. Kieran has the boat untied by the time he makes it back with the bundled oilcloth and his collapsible rod in his hands. The sun’s shining behind him something bright, throwing golden colors over Kieran’s face, pretty as a picture, even with that mess around his eye. Kieran waves at him as his boots touch the sandy shores, and Arthur face breaks into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, it was a lot harder to write and i edited a few big chunks out in the end :’) as always, i love kudos, love love comments, thank you so much for reading!! hoping to have the first chapter of my next longform kierthur fic up sometime soon as well.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway. Was i the only one who did that favor for bill and thought, hmm, strange? The way he says it? Anyway this may. Be two chapters...... we’ll see.
> 
> edit: chapter 2... is coming... this was supposed to be a pwp 5k max and now it’s pushing 12k :| 
> 
> Comments, crits, kudos are all very much appreciated. Comments especially help my writing. <3 
> 
> Tumblr: @hello-imasalesman  
> Also, did you know the word for coffee in Hindi is kofi? @cheapcheapfaker


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